Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Texting Fic, Mistaken Identity, Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter's Fight in Episode: s01e03 Hunter, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Jealous Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, scott hunter is protective of shane, WAG Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Wine Night, Eventually

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-05 Words: 4,827 Chapters: 2/2

Wine Night (Before Anyone Notices… But Not Really)

Summary

Shane Hollander isn’t as secretive as he thinks he is.
Neither is Ilya Rozanov — at least not to Scott Hunter.

Or: Scott Hunter knows more than he lets on (then he makes it very clear)

Notes

HI!!! i love working on this series and although there isn't a big WAG feature in here they will be in pt. 2 of this fic & in many more to come!

Chapter 1: one

Shane doesn’t even have to tell them.

He opens the team chat to nineteen unread messages and the distinct sensation of walking into a locker room where everyone has already decided this conversation matters more than it should.

JJ: who took my socks from the dryer

Drew: define “your” socks

Olsson: if they’re the black ones with the hole those are community property now

Gilbert: absolutely not those socks smell like regret

Patrice: i believe socks choose their owner

Hayden: that’s not how laundry works but ok

Roy: this is why i wash everything alone
Roy: also jj your socks are in my bag

JJ: WHAT
JJ: WHY

Roy: because you left them on the bench like a criminal

Alex: can we talk about how cursed it is to wear someone else’s socks

Drew: speaks from experience?

Alex: no comment

Hayden: if i get ringworm from this team im suing all of you

Shane scrolls, lips twitching despite himself.

Shane: they’re just socks

JJ: easy for you to say you wear the same ones every game

Shane: superstition works

Patrice: superstition is just confidence with better branding

Gilbert: wow that was deep

Drew: shane you good for warmups or still taping like a psycho

Shane pauses, then types.

Shane: yeah i’m good

JJ: shocking

Shane locks his phone.

The rink is already loud — skates carving into ice, sticks knocking together, the familiar bite of cold air settling into his lungs. His shoulders loosen the second his blades hit the surface.

This is easy.
This is where things stay simple.

The game is ugly.

Not sloppy — just hard. Every shift costs something. Hits land heavy. The ice feels smaller than usual, crowded with bodies that don’t move unless they’re forced.

Shane takes a stick to the ribs in the first. Returns the favor in the second. By the third, his legs burn and his jaw aches from clenching it too long.

They score late.

It isn’t pretty, but it’s enough.

The final horn cuts through the noise and the bench explodes — gloves banging, helmets knocked together, the kind of relief that only comes from grinding something out instead of earning it clean.

They win.

Shane barely registers the score as he circles back for one last shift change, breath coming fast, sweat cooling against his neck.

That’s when Hunter drifts too close.

Not enough to draw a call. Just enough to be deliberate.

Shane’s mouth opens before he’s thought it through.

“Hope next time we play you decide to show up.”

The words leave Shane’s mouth smooth as glass. No edge. No extra volume. Just enough to carry.

Hunter slows, turns his head, and spits onto the ice. “Cheap.”

“True,” Shane says, immediately — and spits too.

It’s easy. Too easy. Like muscle memory that doesn’t belong to him.

The realization comes late, sliding in sideways: That wasn’t my style.

There’s usually more heat when he chirps. More bite. Something reckless behind it. This was calm. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided.

Hunter doesn’t skate away.

He studies Shane instead, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing the way they do when he’s clocking a pattern mid-play.

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

Shane turns back hard. “What?”

Hunter’s mouth twitches — not a smile, not quite. “You fucking heard me, Hollander.”

Shane scoffs. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Hunter pushes in closer, voice low enough to disappear into the crowd noise.

“Yeah right mr. 1221.”

Something tight snaps in Shane’s chest.

He shoves Hunter, sharp and sudden, like he needs to end the moment before it finishes forming.

Gloves hit the ice.

The fight is fast and loud and pointless — exactly enough to drown out everything Scott just said. Fists swing, skates scrape, bodies collide. The refs are on them almost immediately, hauling them apart before it can turn into anything worse.

As they drag Shane backward, Hunter laughs.

“There,” he calls over the noise. “That’s more like you.”

Shane doesn’t look back.

In the box, his knuckles sting and his breathing evens out too quickly. The adrenaline burns off fast, leaving his head uncomfortably clear.

Clear enough to know Scott wasn’t guessing.

Clear enough to know the fight didn’t fix anything — it just delayed it.

And that, somehow, feels worse.

The locker room is loud in the way it always is after a win — music too high, bodies sprawled, laughter sharp and loose.

Shane doesn’t join in.

“What was that about with Hunter?” someone asks later, half-joking.

Shane shrugs, already pulling his shirt over his head.

“Nothing,” he says easily. “He talked. I didn’t like it.”

It’s true.

Just not complete.

He sits with his elbows on his knees, tape half-peeled, knuckles already swelling. Someone claps him on the shoulder in passing. Someone else chirps about the fight. He nods where he’s supposed to, breathes where he’s supposed to.

No one notices he hasn’t said a word.

His phone buzzes once in his hand. Nothing important. A notification he doesn’t open.

He waits until the room empties a little. Until the noise dulls. Until there’s space to think — which turns out to be the worst part.

He types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Jane: did hunter say anything weird to you recently

The reply comes quicker than he expects.

Lily: no

Shane swallows.

Jane: like… about me

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Lily: what did he say

Shane stares at the screen, pulse loud in his ears. Scott’s voice replays, unhelpful and exact.

You’re starting to sound like him.

His thumbs hover.

Jane: nothing

A lie. Thin. Obvious. Left hanging between them like a bad pass.

Shane locks his phone and leans back against the cold metal of the locker, eyes fixed on nothing.

For the first time all night, he wonders if the fight was the easy way out.

Yuna notices before Shane says anything.

He’s home longer than usual, pacing the kitchen instead of sitting, opening the fridge and closing it without taking anything out. His knuckles are bruised — not unusual — but the rest of him is too still, like he’s holding something in place with sheer effort.

“You fought Scott Hunter,” she says, eventually.

Shane stops moving.

He doesn’t look at her. “Everyone fights Scott Hunter.”

Yuna leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely. She isn’t smiling. She isn’t mad. That’s worse.

“You don’t,” she says. “Not like that.”

Shane exhales through his nose. “It was nothing.”

She hums softly, unimpressed. “That’s not an answer.”

He reaches for a glass, fills it with water he doesn’t drink. “He said something.”

“They always do.”

This time, Shane does look at her.

Yuna tilts her head, studying him in the way that used to make him feel ten years old and transparent. “You don’t usually care.”

The silence stretches.

Shane shrugs, too casual. “Maybe I’m tired of people running their mouths.”

“Mm.” She considers that. “You’ve been tired of that since peewee.”

He doesn’t respond.

Yuna pushes gently, because she always has. “You didn’t fight him because he chirped you. You fought him because you wanted him to stop talking.”

Shane’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not the same thing,” she adds.

The water glass sweats onto the counter between them.

“Just be careful,” Yuna says finally. “You don’t fight like that unless something gets under your skin.”

She waits — not for an answer, but for a reaction.

Shane gives her neither.

She nods once, accepting the refusal for what it is. “Okay.”

Then, softer: “Just don’t lie to yourself.”

She leaves him alone in the kitchen.

Shane stares at the condensation ring on the counter long after she’s gone, mind replaying Scott’s voice — calm, knowing — and the way the fight hadn’t fixed a damn thing.

Weeks Later

The All-Star Game feels different.

Looser. Brighter. Less weight — at least on the surface.

Shane barely processes the introductions, the crowd noise, the way the ice looks almost too clean under the lights. What he does register is the line sheet — and the unmistakable reality that he’s playing on the same line as Ilya Rozanov.

And across from them: Scott Hunter.

Shane hasn’t seen Hunter since that comment.
The one about him and Ilya.

He never told Ilya that Hunter knew — or that he suspected.
He figured it wouldn’t end well.

So he did what he always does.

He left it.

The puck drops, and the game starts fast. Any lingering thoughts of the last matchup with Hunter fade as soon as Shane’s skates hit their rhythm.

Him and Ilya move like they were meant to be on this ice together.

Suddenly, that’s the only thing that matters.

Ilya cuts wide and Shane fills the space without thinking. A pass threads through traffic like it was always meant to be there. They don’t talk. They don’t hesitate.

They move like this is something they’ve practiced —even though they haven’t.

Ilya took the pass from the defenseman and took off.

When he glanced to his left, Shane was already there.

They crossed the blue line together. Ilya slid the puck to Shane. Shane knocked it back without looking, trusting Ilya to be exactly where he should be — and he was. The return pass came at the last second.

Shane fired it clean into the top corner for his fourth goal of the game.

The arena erupted.

Shane lifted his arms, laughter breaking out of him before he could stop it. He looked impossibly happy — cheeks flushed, eyes crinkled, sweat darkening the collar of his jersey.

Ilya didn’t hesitate.

He wrapped Shane up, pulled him close, felt the heat of him — the sharp puff of breath against his neck, the familiar weight of his arms tightening around him —and kissed him, hard, on the cheek.

It was quick. Automatic.

To the crowd, it was nothing — just Ilya’s usual obnoxious shenanigans, another excuse to needle Hollander on a big night.

But the truth was simpler.

He’d seen the opening.

And he’d taken it.

“What the fuck?” Shane laughed, startled more than anything else.

Ilya felt heat bloom in his own face — rare, uncomfortable — and stepped back. “Nice goal.”

“Nice assist,” Shane said, shooting him a look that lingered a beat too long.

Ilya grinned, shrugged, and thumped him on the back in an exaggerated show of machismo before skating toward the bench.

Play resumed.

Shane didn’t think about it again.

Not yet.

Except–

As he lines up for the faceoff, he catches Scott Hunter gliding past on the opposite team. Scott’s smile is easy. Almost fond.

“So,” Scott says lightly, like they’re talking about the weather.

“Told you,” he says quietly.

Shane stiffens. “Told me what?”

Scott’s grin is easy. Almost kind.

“You sound like him.”

The puck hits the ice.

Shane wins the draw on instinct, body moving before his head catches up. The shift blurs — pressure, movement, sound — but Scott’s words stay lodged somewhere uncomfortable.

You sound like him.

They settle into the shift.

The puck moves low to high, then back down again. Shane drifts to the half wall, draws pressure, dishes it off. Ilya loops behind the net, patient, waiting for the lane to open.

They cycle once.
Twice.

The defense adjusts. Sticks clog the middle. The play slows, just a fraction — long enough for bodies to reposition.

Then Hunter lines Ilya up.

It’s a legal hit. Clean enough to stand. Hard enough to make a point. Ilya slams into the boards, shoulder-first, the impact echoing sharp through the rink. He drops to one knee before pushing himself back up, jaw set.

The crowd reacts like it always does.

Shane doesn’t.

He’s there in two strides.

“Hey,” he snaps, getting between them. “You didn’t need to finish that.”

Hunter looks at him, genuinely curious. “He’s in the play.”

“So are you,” Shane says flatly. “Pick someone else.”

Ilya straightens, eyes flicking to Shane — brief, warning. Don’t.

The ref skates in, hand up, voice sharp. “Enough.”

Hunter backs off easily, like he never planned to push it further.

But as he drifts past Shane, he speaks again — low, private.

“See?” he says. “This is what I meant.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Meant what.”

Hunter exhales a laugh, not unkind.

“Don’t get defensive now, Hollander,” he says. “I don’t care that you’re into men.”

A beat — deliberate.

“Your boyfriend’s just an asshole.”

Shane bristles. “You don’t know him.”

Hunter’s smile turns wry. Almost sympathetic.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what worries me.”

He glides away as the whistle blows again.

Shane stands there for a second longer than he should, pulse loud in his ears.

Chapter 2: two

Chapter Notes

i adore this chapter and i hope you guys do too!!! i love writing this series and obviously more will be coming ;)

The All-Star Game fallout is quieter than Shane expects.

No questions. No looks. No one calls him out on the chemistry, or the kiss, or the way everything seemed to click too easily once he and Ilya were on the same line. No one jokes about it. No one needles him in the way they usually would if they thought they could get away with it.

That should be a relief.

Instead, it sits wrong in his chest — like a held breath that never quite lets go.

Because Scott Hunter saw it.

That’s the thought that keeps circling back, uninvited and persistent. Not that Scott said anything after. Not that he pushed or pressed or made it a thing. Just that he noticed. That he clocked it fast enough to comment on it mid-game, casually, like it wasn’t even a secret worth treating carefully.

And if Scott Hunter noticed, then it means it was visible.

It means Shane didn’t hide it as well as he thought he did.

He goes through the motions the next few days on autopilot. Meetings. Travel. The low-level chaos of being around teammates who are all coming down from the same high. He laughs when he’s supposed to. He answers questions cleanly. He keeps his hands where they belong.

He still feels watched.

Not by anyone in particular. Just… in general. Like the air itself has memory.

Ilya mentions it like it’s nothing.

They’re alone in the hallway heading back toward the locker rooms, the afterglow of the win still buzzing through the building. Laughter spills out from somewhere ahead of them, echoing down the concrete corridor, the sound unmistakably locker-room loud — too much energy with nowhere to go yet.

There’s still a faint edge to it, though. A lingering awkwardness from the mixed teams, unfamiliar jerseys brushing past one another, players peeling off in different directions like they’re not quite sure where they belong anymore.

That’s when Ilya speaks, casual as ever.

“You and Hunter chirped a lot,” Ilya says, mild, observational. Not accusatory.

Shane looks up from his phone. “He started it.”

Ilya hums, amused. “You don’t usually finish it.”

The comment weaves more heavily than it should.

Shane shrugs, aiming for casual. “Guess I was in the mood.”

Ilya studies him for a beat longer, eyes sharp in that way Shane knows means he’s reading into something but hasn’t decided whether to say it yet.

“Mm,” Ilya says finally. He doesn’t push. He never does.

Which somehow makes Shane feel worse.

Shane doesn’t open the team chat until after he puts away his clothes and skates.

That’s his first mistake.

At first it’s just noise — the usual chaos, messages stacked out of order, reactions firing off faster than anyone can keep track of. He scrolls without really reading, thumb moving on autopilot.

Then something catches.

JJ: did hunter forget this was an exhibition

Shane pauses.

Scrolls again.

Drew: DAMN
Drew: look at that hit on rosanov

JJ: Holy shit man

Hayden: GET EM SHANE

That one’s time-stamped earlier. During the second.

Shane hadn’t seen it come in.

He keeps going.

Roy: hollander bro you snapped
Roy: since when did you chirp back like that

Hayden: our boy is growing up guys

JJ: yeah right 

A pause.

JJ: I blame rosanov he’s rubbing off on him

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

He hadn’t thought he was being loud. Or obvious. It hadn’t felt like snapping — just responding. Stepping in. Ending it.

Apparently that counted.

The chat keeps going, messages spaced just far enough apart to feel like people reacting in real time.

Alex: fr tho you and rosanov look good together
Alex: like REALLY good

That one has a reaction already. A couple of fire emojis. A thumbs up.

Shane’s stomach tightens.

He scrolls again, faster now, like he’s trying to outrun the words.

Gilbert: i didn’t even know you talked that much on ice
Gilbert: spicy tonight hollander

There’s a pause after that. A few minutes where nothing new comes in.

Shane stares at the screen anyway.

This is the part he hates — the waiting. The space where his brain fills in things no one’s actually saying.

No one’s accusing him of anything.
No one’s connecting dots.
No one’s even being particularly clever about it.

They’re just… noticing.

And if they noticed this —

He locks his phone.

Immediately unlocks it again.

More messages have come in while he wasn’t looking.

JJ: also u good?
JJ: that was a short fuse even for you

Shane types yeah.

Deletes it.

Types all good.

Deletes that too.

He doesn’t want to answer at all — any response feels like it would draw a line under something he doesn’t want named yet.

He lets the phone go dark in his hand.

For a few minutes, that works.

Then his pocket buzzes again.

He shouldn’t look.

He does anyway.

Roy: not a bad thing btw
Roy: just different

Different.

That word lands harder than anything else in the thread.

Shane leans back against the wall, stares up at the ceiling, lets the noise of the building wash over him — footsteps, voices, laughter echoing down the hall. Normal sounds. Normal night.

Nothing is wrong.

And yet.

He opens the chat one last time.

Scrolls from the top.

Reads it all again, slower this time.

The messages aren’t malicious. They aren’t suspicious. They’re just… accurate. Observations, tossed around without weight, without anyone realizing they’ve brushed up against something real.

That’s what scares him.

Because it means Scott wasn’t the only one who saw it.

He just might’ve been the only one who understood what he was looking at.

Shane doesn’t reply.

He doesn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t feel like explaining.

And he’s not ready to do that yet.

Ilya opens the WAGs chat without really thinking about it.

That’s his mistake.

The messages aren’t stacked the way the team chat was. They’re spaced out — reactions sent in the moment, then pauses, then more as the game unfolds. It feels like scrolling backward through time.

Rin: okay but hollander was HEATED tonight

That one’s early. First period.

Ilya scrolls.

Jackie: right?? i didn’t know he chirped like that
Jackie: he usually just… stares
Jackie: hayden and the boys texted about it in their group too

A few minutes later.

Lily: hunter gets under his skin
Lily: always has

Ilya pauses there.

Keeps going.

Rin: DAMN
Rin: did you see that hit on rosanov

That one has a timestamp from the second period. Right after.

Jackie: yeah that was rough
Jackie: but he bounced back fast

Noelle: that was insane

An exclamation reaction from someone. A fire emoji from someone else.

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose.

More messages trickle in.

Rin: also
Rin: him and shane together on that line???

There’s a pause after that — long enough that Ilya can almost picture them all waiting to see if anyone will say it more clearly.

Someone does.

Jackie: it just works
Jackie: like immediately

Another pause.

Lily: they read each other really well

That one shouldn’t matter.
It still does.

Ilya scrolls again, slower now.

Rin: not trying to be weird but
Rin: shane was SHORT tonight

Short fuse.

Protective.

No one says that part out loud. They don’t need to.

The chat keeps going — lighter now, moving on, already losing interest the way people do once the game ends and the adrenaline fades.

But Ilya stays there a moment longer, phone warm in his hand, rereading the earlier messages.

They’re not suspicious.
They’re not digging.

They’re just reacting to what they saw.

And suddenly, Ilya understands why Shane looked the way he did after the hit — not angry, not rattled.

Just… alert.

Ilya pockets his phone and looks up.

That’s when the invite comes — casual, unremarkable, tossed into the space between lockers like an afterthought.

“Bar after,” someone says. “Everyone’s going.”

Everyone.

Shane pauses. Not long — just enough.

Enough for Ilya to catch it.

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He just nods once and reaches for his jacket, easy, decisive.

Shane hesitates a beat longer, then follows.

The bar is loud in a way that feels familiar instead of overwhelming.

It’s not the kind of noise that presses in on him — it’s layered, diffuse, softened by dim lights and bodies packed too close together. Music pulses from somewhere overhead, bass heavy enough to feel in his chest, but not so loud that conversation dies completely. Laughter overlaps itself, bursts and fades, swallowed by the next wave before it can linger.

It feels normal.

Which is strange, considering how much of the night hasn’t.

Shane and Ilya sit next to each other at the bar, angled slightly inward, close enough that their shoulders touch when one of them shifts. Not close enough to draw attention. Not far enough to feel deliberate about it. The space between their knees disappears and reappears as people squeeze past behind them, brushes of contact that feel incidental to anyone watching.

To Shane, every one of them registers.

They order drinks. Something simple. Something they won’t have to think about. The bartender shouts, nods, slides the glasses across the counter with practiced ease.

They talk about nothing.

About the travel schedule coming up. About how bad the hotel coffee was last time. About the music — whether it’s good or just loud enough to pretend it is. Ilya makes a dry comment about the drink being stronger than advertised. Shane laughs, softer than usual, and leans in without realizing he’s doing it.

It all feels easy.

That’s what makes Shane uneasy.

He keeps waiting for the shift — the moment someone notices too much, says something sideways, asks a question that isn’t really a question. He scans the room without meaning to, tracking faces, half-expecting to catch someone looking at them for a beat too long.

It doesn’t happen.

People are wrapped up in their own conversations, their own nights. A few wave when they recognize him. Someone slaps him on the shoulder in passing, shouts something unintelligible over the music. Shane nods, smiles, lets it roll off.

No one lingers.

No one stares.

Ilya talks about a place they might go next road trip if they get the chance. Shane listens, nodding, responding when he should, but part of his attention stays fixed on the absence of tension — the lack of it almost louder than the thing itself.

He’s so used to bracing that not needing to feels wrong.

Their knees touch again. This time neither of them moves away.

Shane notices the way Ilya’s posture stays relaxed, how he isn’t scanning the room the way Shane is. He looks comfortable. Grounded. Like this is exactly where he expects to be.

That steadiness is contagious.

Shane feels his shoulders drop without permission. His jaw unclenches. He takes a longer drink than he meant to, lets the burn anchor him in the moment.

Maybe this is nothing.

Maybe Scott was an outlier.
Maybe noticing doesn’t automatically mean exposure.
Maybe being seen once doesn’t mean being seen everywhere.

He lets himself believe that, just for now.

They fall into a companionable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Ilya watches the bartender pour another round for someone down the bar. Shane watches the condensation slide down his glass.

The world keeps moving.

The other shoe doesn’t drop.

And for the first time all night, Shane starts to think that maybe — just maybe — it doesn’t have to.

The bar stays loud.

It keeps moving around them, indifferent, which Shane starts to realize is the point. No one is here to watch anyone else. Everyone’s attention is scattered, pulled in a dozen directions at once.

Shane takes another drink.

Ilya is halfway through a sentence about travel delays when Shane feels it — not a presence exactly, more like a change in the air. The sense of someone stepping into a familiar rhythm without needing permission.

Scott Hunter doesn’t appear all at once.

At first, he’s just there — a shadow at the edge of Shane’s vision, a familiar voice laughing somewhere behind them. Shane stiffens before he can help it, shoulders tightening, posture going just a touch too straight.

Ilya notices.

He doesn’t ask. He just pauses, eyes flicking briefly to Shane’s face.

“It’s fine,” Shane says automatically.

Scott’s voice drifts closer.

“Tell me you didn’t order that on purpose,” Scott says to someone Shane doesn’t recognize.

“Shut up,” the guy replies. “It’s good.”

“Objectively false.”

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

Scott moves like he belongs here — not loud, not careful, just easy. He doesn’t look at Shane right away. That helps. It lets the tension settle into something manageable instead of spiking.

When Scott finally turns, it’s with the same casual familiarity he’s always had.

“Hollander,” he says, nodding once. Neutral. Normal.

“Hunter.”

The exchange is a bit stiffer than usual, but contained. Polite. Him and Hunter will always be friends on some kind of level. 

Scott’s gaze shifts to Ilya then — assessing, not hostile. Curious in a way that’s almost annoying.

“So,” Scott says, tilting his head. “This is him.”

Ilya’s mouth quirks. “Apparently.”

Scott snorts, unimpressed. “You hit harder than you look.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says dryly.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“I know.”

Shane winces internally.

This is exactly what he didn’t want — not a fight, not a confrontation, just the friction of two personalities that were never going to mesh easily. Scott doesn’t dislike Ilya because of anything abstract. He dislikes him because he’s abrasive, unapologetic, and takes up space without asking.

Scott looks back at Shane.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “We’re good.”

Scott hums, unconvinced.

He glances at Shane’s drink, then at the clock mounted behind the bar.

“Careful,” Scott says lightly. “You’ve got a habit of doing something stupid in room numbers 1221.”

Shane freezes.

Just for a fraction of a second —

but it’s enough.

Ilya notices.

“So that’s what that is,” Ilya says, amused. “I was wondering.”

Scott raises an eyebrow. “Wondering what.”

“The staring,” Ilya replies. “He does it too.”

Shane groans. “Jesus.”

Scott laughs — short, surprised — and then something in him shifts.

Because while Ilya is smiling at Scott, it’s casual. Polite. Performative in the way Ilya always is with people he doesn’t care about.

But when Shane reaches for his glass and misses the coaster by a hair —

Ilya moves.

Not fast. Not obvious. He just slides the coaster under the glass without looking, hand steady, eyes already back on Shane’s face.

Checking.

That’s the moment.

Scott sees it.

Not the touch.
Not the proximity.
The attention.

The way Ilya’s focus narrows automatically. The way his expression softens without permission. The way he looks at Shane like the room could disappear and it wouldn’t matter.

Scott exhales.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Both of them look at him.

“You love him,” Scott says — not accusing, not surprised. Just stating a fact that finally makes everything else line up.

Ilya doesn’t deny it.

Shane doesn’t either.

There’s a beat of silence — not tense, just full.

Scott nods to himself, like he’s finishing a puzzle.

“Okay,” he says. Then, with a crooked smile, “That explains the short fuse.”

Shane lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Scott shifts closer then — not invading, just included — and drapes an arm across the back of the booth like it’s always been his spot.

“Relax,” he says easily, glancing between them. “If I were gonna make it weird, I would’ve done it already.”

Shane huffs out a laugh despite himself.

Scott looks at Ilya again — really looks — and this time there’s no edge to it.

Just understanding.

“Take care of him then, asshole,” Scott says simply.

Ilya nods. “Always.”

Scott smiles — small, genuine — and turns to Shane.

"Well, I owe you an apology then." He pats Shane's shoulder. 

Shane huffs a laugh, "no need, but I appreciate it anyway."

Scott lifts his glass.

“Alright,” he says. “Now that that’s settled — who’s buying the next round?”

The night rolls on.

And for the first time, Shane believes it actually might.

The tension dissipates. Not because anything’s been explained — but because it doesn’t need to be.

They sit there a while longer.

Laugh. Drink. Exist.

No one stares. No one says anything.

Shane realizes, distantly, that being seen by one person didn’t make him visible to everyone.

It just made him honest with himself.

And that, somehow, feels manageable.

Chapter End Notes

i just love the idea of them with scott & kip after they are all out ugh i just love them ALL

hope you guys enjoyed & as always comments appreciated :)